


Under the Shelter of Each Other, People Survive

by yaaaasshole



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Eventual Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Ian's POV, M/M, Medieval Ireland, Medieval Russia/Ukraine, Mention of Past Abuse, Mickey's POV, Not sure where I'm going with this just yet, Slowest Burn, but i write like a chapter a day so..., evens out, gonna take me so long, here's the first encounter, some violence, tags will update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 12:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6753988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaaaasshole/pseuds/yaaaasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short introduction to a medieval!gallavich au inspired by the fic "Shadows of the Mess You Made" by Spock</p>
<p>The beginning is vaguely similar, but the premise the author used just seemed to fit best with what I'm trying to do.</p>
<p>The warning bells have been rung, something is coming. Something that will forever change the course of the life of Iain Ó Gallchobhair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I mBaile-na-Glaice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [shadows of the mess you made](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544426) by [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock). 



> Sorry this is incredibly short, I'm just starting.  
> The work title is the english translation of the irish gaelic "Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine"  
> The chapter title means in Ballynaglack, the area of what's now County Donegal where the Gallagher Clan is meant to hail from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title "I mBaile-na-Glaice" is irish for In Ballynaglack, the part of Donegal where the Gallaghers had a castle  
> Ó Gallchobhair is the Irish spelling of O'Gallagher  
> Filleadh is Irish for fold and refers to the a kilt there's the filleadh mòr, the great kilt, or the filleadh beag, the small kilt  
> This chapter has been edited and I'll continue to make edits

Everything was peaceful until it wasn’t. Iain sat with a start in the grove, breathing gone shallow, and snapping his head in the direction of peeling bells in town. His sleep-blurred eyes focused on the tower in the distance, hoping commotion, the alarm was somehow just a result of his addled mind. But even as his mind cleared the bells kept on their hollow clanging, and if that weren’t evidence enough, the winking glint of the heavy, swaying brass in the golden light of the late afternoon confirmed his fears. 

The redhead quickly gathered his things—a bow and a quiver of arrows—and took to the dirt path out of the clearing, which served as his resting spot. In his rush, he found himself stumbling over his own feet, holding desperately at his falling belt, willing his filleadh to stay wrapped and secured. It had taken him some time to pass through the wood, into the village, and he was steadily closing in on the city gate, feeling each knell of the warning bell as a wave of panic crashing over his body. He pushed himself, huffing, finally getting some small sense of relief as he hurtled through the wooden gates at the edge of town.  
Though not surprised by the throng of panicking, frightened small folk, seeking refuge within the walls of the fortress, Iain was forces to elbow his way through them, his voice growing horse, shouting for them to make way. He only came to a stop when, having burst through the heavy wooden door of the Ó Gallchobhair keep, he crashed into someone else, who pulled him close urging him to be calm. They whispered soothing words against the crown of Iain’s head, the young man’s eyes clenched shut, panting heavily from exertion. He swallowed thickly, and looked up into his elder sister’s eyes, finding in their depths the same panic and uncertainty he felt in his heart. 

“What - the absolute fuck - is happening?” he asked through heaving breaths. He looked back over his shoulder, following Fiona’s gaze through the hall and toward the wood, from which he had just returned. 

Without so much as a glance in his direction, she deliberately moved a hand to her chest, fingertips ghosting over the cross around her neck. She ultimately answered, an uncharacteristically uncertain quality to her voice, “I’m not sure, but I suppose we’re going to find out.”

The two were brought out of their reverie by an all too familiar sound. Their father, the rí tuaithe of Baile na Glaice, was drunkenly arguing with his eldest son, Iain’s elder brother Philip. It was tough to make out what was being said through the thick, stone walls of the keep, but matters were set straight when the two entered the great hall through the door opposite the Iain and his sister. 

“You have so few actual jobs Frank, how the hell did you manage to fuck things up this royally!?” Lip spat, trailing after his staggering father. 

“Everything I do for this family, and what kind of thanks do I get? Bitching and moaning, and fucking criticism! Don’t get me started on the criticism,” Francis replied, only stopping to attempt a careful sip from sloshing pewter tankard in his hand. Until he was apparently struck by a sudden realization and continued his thought, “Need I remind you, that I am the king of this caisleán-”

“Petty king you jackass!” Lip said, cutting his father off, “All you have to do is levy taxes, convene meetings, send the god damn money to the rí in Dun-na-nGall, not play the fucking ambassador to Éireann!” 

He caught sight of his siblings then, priorities quickly changing. “What do you know about what’s going on?” he asked ominously, fiddling with what looked like a missive from a scout, bearing their seal.

“Nothing,” Fiona admitted anxiously, “just that we’re apparently on alert, and I’m far from surprised to hear that it’s Frank’s fucking fault.”

“It’s the same bells as before. They can’t be back already. It’s only been what? A year?” Iain interjected, looking back and forth between his siblings confusedly. He remembered the Viking hordes, the invasion that managed to wipe out half the village. He had been young, he was still young, but a decent fighter. He was head of the little kingdom’s meager army, though that was hardly a great honor considering it was comprised of about a handful of trained warriors, and any man fit to fight. They had managed to stave off a sudden swarm of blond giants, who just come out of nowhere one day in their longboats and nearly destroyed their town. Frankly, they were nearly successful. Many young men around Iain’s age were lost that day, and the village still hadn’t managed to recover. The attack wasn’t very long ago, so it terrified Iain to think one would happen again so soon, but he was brought back into the present by his brother.

Lip sighed, shaking his head before looking out solemnly out the stronghold doors into the square, “Not quite,” he answered, “It is foreigners from the east, but they’re apparently different from the Nords…They landed ashore this afternoon. Should be here by evening. This fucker,” he spat, indicating Frank, “agreed to trade with them.”

Iain, let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, for once relieved. Thinking the worst was past them, he started rambling, “Well that’s fine, I mean we’ve traded with foreigners before like a million times, and usually we can get some pretty good stuff out of it li—” 

“Iain! Just stop,” Lip interrupted suddenly. He was clearly agitated. There was more to it; he should have known. There was always some catch if Frank was involved. Lip was having trouble looking his younger brother in the eye, but he managed to hold his gaze long enough to say, finally, “Iain, Frank traded you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any comments, criticism, suggestions you have to offer are much appreciated. They're my life blood and help me get inspired.


	2. i Seomra na Comhairle de Chaisléan Leifir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They needed to devise a plan, and time was in ever decreasing supply."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is the Irish for "In the Council Chambers of Castle Lifford"  
> Lifford Castle did exist, and was claimed by the Gallaghers in the 16th century
> 
> Éireannach- Irish, here adj.  
> Knyaz' (князь)- a type of Russian prince (principalities were like kingdoms)  
> Terentii (Терентии)- the slavic version of the name Terentius or Terrence  
> Rúiseach- Russian(s), here n.  
> Knyazhich (княжич)- a son of a knyaz'  
> Mikhailu (Мїхаилъ)- the old church slavonic form of Michael  
> Terentievich (Терентиевич)- a patronymic meaning 'son of terrence'
> 
> hope you enjoy!

“I cannot believe this! I mean I always knew Frank was a tremendous ass, but this…” Fiona bit out, shaking with anger.

Philip gathered the family in the small council chambers in the castle’s tower. Night had fallen, torches were lit, and all the siblings, including the three youngest Ó Gallchobhair children, were gathered to discuss their options. The six just sat there around the battered oak table, feeling dumbfounded, angry, and betrayed. Fiona had really captured what they all were thinking, but they collectively agreed they needed to forget about Frank for the time being and focus on the information Philip had gathered. They needed to devise a plan, and time was in ever decreasing supply.

Lip didn’t have all the information himself, but he tried to explain as best he could, “So here’s what I know. Frank ran up a fuck ton of debt with clans Ó Donnell and Ó Neill, something about drunk sheep and a lost bet. Now they want to collect and our father has no way to pay up. Anyway, Frank gets this report about a slavic merchant flashing a lot of change, and looking to procure an Éireannach berserker to further train his lord’s men—”

“Then why not just give them Pádraig or Tadhg?” Carl interjected, “They’re good soldiers, why’s it got to be Iain?”

“I don’t know, honestly. The correspondence is a nightmare; my slavic’s gone to shit,” Philip pulled out a packet of rolled parchment, flattened it on the table searching the lines for a specific entry, which he found. “Yeah see, this,” he said turning the papers to face his siblings, standing and pointing at the line of foreign text, “these are the contract details. Knyaz’ Terentii promised four cases of gold and three bags of silver in return for a noble ‘Ryzhij’? I think they mean it has to be a prince, and Iain was Frank’s guard captain.” He trailed off still trying to sort things out.

Deborah piped up next, “It sort of makes sense. If you’re the heir lip, he couldn’t just send you off, Iain’s less risky.” she said, disappointment coloring her voice, and tears threatening to fall.

Fiona shook her head, “No,” her mouth was outrunning her brain and she stumbled a bit say “No, we— there’s got to be something we can do— ”

“Why are you all talking like I’m not even here!?” Iain snapped, he could only take being talked about for so long. He calmed down, sighing and shaking his head. He looked back up and asked, “Why don’t I just stand my ground and tell them I’m not going?” 

“Can’t do that,” lip said, staring off into space, thinking it over. “If the Ó Donnell’s and Ó Neill’s don’t get paid, they take us to war. If we go to war, there’s no way we’d stand a chance after the raids from last year. And the Rúiseach have their deal in writing with Frank’s seal. No, we have to make a switch, little brother. Carl’s right, they don’t know who’s who. We just dress someone willing to go up in one of our tartans and try to con our way out of this the best we can.”

Iain crossed his arms and slumped back in his seat in defeat. He understood that Philip was the smart one, but none of this sat well with him. He disliked the idea of someone being forced to take his place almost as much as the idea that he may be leaving his home forever because his father had sold him into the service of foreigners. It was getting late. The moon was high bathing everything in a surreal silver light. The siblings came to a tacit decision to bring the discussion to a close. They’d speak to the guard just before dawn to sort out their plan. Those who had still been seated stood, but found themselves pausing, nobody wanting to be the first to retire from the tower chambers.

Fiona finally broke the silence, gathering her three youngest siblings and ushering them to their private rooms, “Come on, all of us need to be fresh ready in the morning, we should get to bed.”

As the four left the room, Philip approached his brother, who was staring out the window at the town square, no doubt overthinking what was going to happen the next day. “The envoy and his party will probably arrive just after dawn. Our scouts say they’re traveling on horseback from the coast. This guy is apparently sending his sons. The knyazhich Mikhailu Terentievich is apparently well known for being as short as his temper.” He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, looking at him and smiling, “Guess we’ll get to find out… and Iain,” he paused, grabbing the back of his brother’s neck, “No matter what happens, we’ll figure something out.”

Iain nodded at that, and smiled politely, but that smile didn’t reach his eyes. He walked alone down the castle corridors, dragging his fingertips across the rough-hewn stone bricks, trying to memorize the feeling on the way to his bedchambers. There again, in his room, stealing through the windows was the silvery moonlight. Cold, but companionable; an understanding friend who doesn’t try to convince you it will all be ok, just holds you tight so you know you’re not alone. That’s what Iain might be, alone. Alone surrounded by foreign people, speaking a foreign tongue, in a foreign land and he had no say in any of it. He stripped to his small clothes and bundled himself up in his bedcovers, not knowing what to pray for come dawn. All he could do now is put his faith in his brothers’ plan. Entrusting his freedom the enslavement of another, that he should be able to remain at home with his family… including, however, his father, who’d rather have had the price his son would have fetched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this chapter, leave a comment! I was really excited by the comments last time and it made me want to write again today. I think I'm starting to see where I want to take this, but again I'm totally up for collaboration or input. My tumblr is the same as my handle on here so feel free to drop a line if you'd like, or to my gallovich side blog wh0lemilk0vich!


	3. V Puti v Irlandiyu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least they were close to arriving in Irland. They would make whatever trades their father had worked out and set sail back to Kiev.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is transcribed Russian for "En Route to Ireland"
> 
> It takes about 8 or 9 days to get to Ireland from Scandinavia, so I added a day or two for a trip from the Baltic sea
> 
> Knyazivna- ukr. daughter of a prince (knyaz')  
> Masha- usually a short form of Maria, here for Amanda  
> Ika- a short form of Igor  
> Bogatyr- legendary exulted knights of Rus'  
> Irlandets/Irlandtsy- Irish person/Irish people, the Irish  
> Ryzhij- redheaded adj., or redhead adj.n.  
> Póg mo thóin- Irish for "kiss my ass"  
> Irlandsky- Irish adj.

Nothing was peaceful, it never was. Of course it wasn’t, why would it be? Mikhailu groaned in his hammock below deck, hoping that throwing an arm over his face would somehow help to block out the sounds of his crew, and the streaks of accursed sunlight drifting through the boards above him. He lay there thinking angrily about this whole blasted journey. Nine days they had been sailing, nine miserable, damp, salty days. Admittedly, there were places he could get away from his crew, made up of his four brothers and sister, places he often availed himself, but it just never seemed enough to distract him from their incompetence. His sister Amanda, the knyazivna, was never really a problem, but his elder brothers were another story. He would never understand how they almost managed to sink their father’s vessel at the way port in Lerwick just two days into the trip. At least they were close to arriving in Irland. They would make whatever trades their father had worked out and set sail back to Kiev.

The brunet tried valiantly to get back to sleep, rocking fitfully in the tarp, but it just was no use. With a grunt through clenched teeth, and a muttered curse to the gods —well God now— he swung his legs over the side of his hanging bed, leaned forward, and jumped solidly to the floor of the lower deck. He yawned, scratching his bare chest, with tattooed fingers, and proceeded to stretch every cramped muscle, and crack every joint he could. He knelt under his bunk to grab some clothes from his trunk. He secured the wrappings around the calves of his dark baggy trousers before buckling up a pair of boots. He lazily pulled on and belted a silver-embroidered black linen tunic, and threw on a matching surcoat. Rolling his shoulders, trying to alleviate the annoyed tension, he stomped up the stairs to see what exactly was going on on-deck.

“Please, feel free to annoy me not only every fucking waking hour of my life, but also in my sleep as well!” he entered squinting into the sunlight to the tableau of his brothers brawling, while their sister basically sat back laughing, “Ika, the fuck is going on!?” he directed at his brother Igor. 

The blond, distracted, turned his head toward the sound; suddenly sent sprawling by a push from Anton. He stumbled onto his feet taking a few steps toward his youngest brother, pointing a finger back at the brutes still fighting. “Someone drank the last of the mead and nobody’s fessing up!” he shouted back indignantly.

Mikhailu tried to control his temper, clenching his eyes shut, grabbing the bridge of his nose, then dragging his hand down is face. “Listen, we’re gonna fucking be in Irland by nightfall, the fuck does it matter that we’re out of mead!? There’ll be shit to drink when we get off of this goddamn boat.” He approached his other siblings to start pulling them off each other, “I swear I’m going to kill every one of you before we even get to shore. Hey- hey assholes, cut that shit the fuck out!” he said pointing at each of them. 

While her brother was berating the other three Masha walked over to Igor, enjoying all of the entertainment she was getting out of today. “You know,” she said never taking her eyes off her angry, gesticulating, twin brother, “you could have just asked me if I drank the last of the mead, would have saved you a lot of this hassle.”

“Shit! We didn’t even think of that… Why didn’t you just fucking tell us that, bitch?” he asked, annoyed.

“This was way more fun,” she said shrugging.”

Mikhailu stalked bowlegged back over to them. “You,” he directed to the blond, “Just go fucking clean something and keep busy until we get to shore.” His brother nodded, and walked away muttering to himself, but obeying. “You read the missives before we left?” he asked his sister, holding out a pack of tied, folded parchments.

“No, but I figure it’s just a simple ‘drop off this, pick up that procedure’ isn’t it?” she responded.

“Yes and no, I guess. We’re dropping _shit_ off, but we’re picking _someone_ up… Father wants the bogatyri trained like the irlandtsy. Says the king of this knyazhestvo offered his son. Kid’s apparently the head of their guard…” he trailed off, looking off in the direction they we’re sailing.

“So?” she asked, “We’ve picked up people before, brother, and it sounds like this one might actually be worth someth—”

“He’s ryzhij.”

“Oh,” his sister said simply, knowingly. After a pause, she clapped him on the back, “Good luck with that. And by the way, I hope your Irish is better than your Swedish.” She joked, bouncing off to the rudder, thinking of a time where her brother almost got them run out of Trelleborg. Something about a mixing up the words for ‘iron’ and ‘fucker.’

Mikhailu gave her the arm, grinning, calling out, “Póg mo thóin!” before heading back down to read over the details of the next day’s trade, and ready his saber, bow and quiver. He was very unsure about this whole contract, but he was more concerned his father’s wrath than he was with his own unease. Fathers and brothers did terrible things for power and wealth in his father and grandfather’s time. The brunet knew how to ignore himself and his feelings for the sake of his father, and his own safety. 

A flickering, happily shameful memory of a stable hand flashes in his mind, all too soon followed by a flash of forgotten pain at the back of his head. And reaching behind he feels the phantom crack of his father’s staff across his back. He remembers the stable boy, broken, bleeding, and dead. He crosses himself, and spits three times over his left shoulder. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth thinking now about the irlandsky prince. The stable boy was ryzhij. Ryzhie are children of the sun with emotions and spirits almost as fiery. But fire can burn; it consumes everything until it consumes itself. Mikhailu almost wonders whether it’s better they sometimes get stamped out before any real damage is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll see how long I can keep an update a day going haha, maybe I'll write a whole bunch and start posting every couple of days. I really appreciate comments, kudos, and ideas. Let me know if there was anything that leaped out at you, or anything I can clear up. In any event just talk to me! I'm on tumblr as yaaaasshole, my personal blog, and wh0lemilk0vich, my gallavich side blog. Drop me a line. I hope this is coming out as well as I think it is.


	4. V Poiskakh Sela Ballynaglack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Irlandia is strange,’ thought the young knyazhich. The problem—he decided—was it was all too familiar to the steppe of home, and yet the subtle differences betrayed its unfamiliarity, its alienness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A relatively short chapter. I'm going to give you guys two more chapters tomorrow hopefully for patiently waiting for me to complete my jury duty. Title is the russian for "In Search of the Village of Ballynaglack"
> 
> zamok- castle  
> veliky knyaz' kievsky- grand prince of kiev
> 
> Milkovich, the ukrainian surname seems to come from a short form of the name Miloslav (beloved of the slavs) which is Milko, so I made them what I think is a fitting new surname from the long form

‘Irlandia is strange,’ thought the young knyazhich. The problem—he decided—was it was all too familiar to the steppe of home, and yet the subtle differences betrayed its unfamiliarity, its alienness. The sweeping grasslands that had brushed his shins, the too blue sky, the hills and valleys, it all could have been transplanted from Kiev. But the wind blew in the wrong direction, the grazing animals weren’t right, the dirt, the very earth itself didn’t feel right. Mikhailu felt a foreboding, despite the tranquil idyllic scene around him, and sat sullenly on his trotting warhorse, idly fiddling with the fletching of his arrows at his hip, honing his saber, and making sure his pointed battlestaff was securely fastened across his back. They were traveling along a river that his map seemed to say led straight to Lifford zamok.

He became aware of stares directed at him by his siblings; an intermittent feeling of someone boring a hole into his back with their gaze. He’d look back to just to see everyone trying to enjoy their final hours free of business, and take in as much of their new surroundings as possible. He never seemed to be able to catch them staring but h knew they were.  
They must be trying to gauge how he was feeling or get him to talk, but the stares and the constant comments on the foreign country’s beauty were starting to get to him. It was, finally, Igor’s insipid comment that Irlandia, ‘looked as if god himself had hewn an entire island out of the purest emerald,’ that set the brunet off.

He pulled his horse to a hault, stopping their whole party in its tracks, “For christ’s sake, will you shut the fuck up already!?” he shouted at all of them, finally breaking his silence. “I have been listening to you all clucking like fucking hens about this insignificant green pebble since just before dawn.” He looked between his four brothers, and sister, enunciating clearly, “We have shit to get done here, and we have to get it done right. Are you or are you not the children of Terentii Miloslavich, veliky knyaz’ kievksy?” he asked enraged, with nostrils flared and pointed eyebrows raised.  
Everyone, now much more resolute and stern, replied with various affirmative answers.

Mikhailu nodded curtly, “Good, then fucking act like it. Get serious, get prepared, and let’s go. We’ve only got a few more miles to ride and I want every one of us to be fucking ready for anything that might happen,” his expression softened, “we know nothing about this land, just what we’ve picked up from traders, and I don’t intend to be caught by surprise by some crazy…” he trailed off, not daring to complete his thought. He shook his head, clicked his tongue, and pulled his horse around. “Come on let’s keep moving. The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can head home.”

The ride was silent from that point on, except for the beat of hooves and the occasional grunt from their horses. There really was just something needling at the back of his mind about this whole ordeal. He was afraid that they would be disappointed by what they came for. End up with some scrawny, little irlandsky runt that wasn’t worth his weight in copper, let alone cases of gold and bags of silver. But he was more afraid this kid would be exactly what their father wanted; somewhere between man and beast, who could somehow train his men to surrender their reason for power. In any event, he’d soon find out, but he was truly praying against the latter. 

As they approached the gates of the walled city nestled sweetly in the valley that was Ballynaglack, Mikhailu crossed himself, as he was recently taught, saying a silent prayer to his new God… but just to make sure, he did the same to all the Old Gods. Hopefully one them, old or new, would make sure this didn’t end too terribly.

He heard a call from behind the gate, watching it slowly raise until it was out of the way completely. He let out his breath and led his family down the stone path to the center of the city, keeping his face stony, like those of the villagers staring daggers at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off thanks for reading, and as always feel free to tell me what you like, what you think could use improvement, or what you may need to know more about. I really love hearing from those of you who follow this, and I hope I make your journey worth while. As at the end of previous chapters, feel free to follow me on my personal or fandom blogs yaaaasshole.tumblr.com or wh0lemilk0vich.tumblr.com. Feel free to drop a line, prompting me, talking about this, or whatever! thx!!


	5. Ar Maidin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iain could tell everyone on his side of the encounter was floored. His blood ran cold. This man was far more than he seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My longest chapter so far, I hope the build up is worth it. I'm trying to make it exciting but I'm sure my pacing is terrible haha!  
> Title is the Irish for "In the Morning"
> 
> Éire-Ireland  
> Fáilte go hÉirinn-Welcome to Ireland  
> Go raibh maith agat/agaibh-thank you/you pl.  
> Vladimirovich-Son of Vladimir (Russian naming convention uses the fathers first name to create a patronymic, many ukrainian surnames are based on old patronymics)  
> Gaeilge-the Irish language n.

Everything and everyone was tense, the air—as clear and crisp as it was—felt too restricting. Everything felt too restricting; Iain found himself adjusting his clothes constantly, as he walked the grounds of caisleán Leifir. He had just been on the parapets trying to clear his head while watching the sunrise, naturally realizing that it may be his last sunrise in Éire. If nothing else, it had been peaceful, and contemplative. He liked the sunrise because it didn’t try to fill him with false hope, or try to say that everything was going to be alright.

The same could not be said of his family, he thought to himself chuckling on his way through the courtyard. His elder brother had been waiting for him early that morning, just at the foot of the stairwell leading to the stone battlements, ambushing him into a hug, and telling him ‘not to worry,’ their plan was fool proof. Nothing the Ó Gallchobhair clan ever did was fool proof. Iain counted himself lucky that he had at least managed to evade his brother for another few hours. He was now pulling on a wrought-iron door handle at the end of the courtyard, which connected to the castle proper only to find his other brother and sisters were already gathered; huddled conspiratorially on the other side. 

They had the decency to look ashamed, quickly silencing their whispers and looking on at Iain with sad smiles. After a pause, he walked over to them, neutral expression masking the electricity running through him, and let them pull him in for a possible last hug. Just then, Philip walked in with their youngest brother Liam on his hip, and dragging an ale-groggy Francis behind him. Now would probably be the best time to shore up their plan.

Philip spoke up, “I’ve talked to Pádraig, and he’s going to be joining us in a few minutes, just before the envoy is supposed to be here,” he turned to his brother, the asset in question, “Iain you remember your job?”

He nodded, willing his jaw to unclench. He swallowed before saying, “I’m to stand near you all but in the back. Pádraig and I are essentially switching places. They know numbers and names of each of us but they don’t know looks. Just stand there, look menacing, and keep my head down.”

Philip clapped him on the back, “Exactly, we can do this. I mean I’ll hand it to your guy Iain, he’s excited for this…” Iain winced at that, this was really too much to ask of anyone, and he’d always be grateful for his men, who would agree to do something like this. Philip caught the guilt ridden look, “Hey listen, come on man, you can’t look like that—this is the only way we’re gonna keep you here,” he added sagely. Fucking smartass.

Fiona looked to their father, who was now slumped in his carved wooden throne, sleeping like the dead, “What about him? You said you talked to him?”

“Yeah, yeah…” Philip sniffed, “He’ll be fine, I told him none of his little speechy shit is getting changed, the only thing he has to do is call Pádraig Iain. Drunk bastard probably won’t even know the difference,” he said flippantly. Then, looking around to his other siblings, he added, “Hey but now you all can’t look like we’re getting away with some bait and switch shit. You have to act like fake Iain is our brother. That means teary faces, snotty noses, you know ‘boo-hoo-don’t-take-my-brother’ kind of shi—”

“My lords,” that’s when Pádraig, the ruddy cheeked, chestnut haired castle guardsman entered the hall. He looked good, Iain thought, he was dressed in old dress clothes of Philip’s, and his tartan kilt was fastened with fine belts and a gold brooch. He obviously didn’t have any appropritate garb of his own, but Iain felt there was something about it all that suited him. The soldier broke him out of his thoughts, “I figured I would let you all know, we’ve received word they have entered the village, and the rest of the guard would like to escort you to the square.”

At that the Ó Gallchobhair siblings hugged one last time. Iain made final adjustments to his guard’s uniform, kilt, sporran, sword, face-paint and all; while Pádraig joined Francis, Phillip, Fiona and the others followed out into the square with their escort. As he crossed the threshold into the early morning sun, aiming at their backs, Iain thought of the blood red sky of the sunrise; not a good omen. He said a quick prayer, and thought of the fair folk, wishing the childhood stories of deal-making elves would be true just for this moment.

Iain walked to the side behind his family, new addition included, off to the side with a few of his men. He returned all of the knowing nods directed his way in solidarity, took a ready stance and looked forward, waiting—like everyone else—for the sound of approaching horses.

He didn’t have to wait long. Within a few minutes the familiar rhythm of hoof beats grew steadily, until it was ringing in everyone’s ears along with the sound of rough spurring shouts. Six tremendous warhorses rode into main town square, kicking up a cloud of dust. Their riders eased them to a halt and dismounted with a skill and grace not in keeping with their appearance. Iain was immediately enamored of the rider in the front. He had pitch-black hair, like a raven’s quills, and eyes as clear and blue as ice. His demeanor was unsettling. Iain maintained a neutral expression, but the pale short man, with his stalking gait, and unreadable expression inexplicably sent his heartbeat racing.

Iain watched as the six black riders approached his family, falling into a line parallel to the one they had already made, while the rest of the village seemed to crowd into the background caging everyone in. The short, frightening man in the middle, along with his men and a woman remained impassive. They seemed to be waiting for the other side to begin this transaction. Luckily, Francis—now awake and chipper—seemed to catch on and stepped forward extending his arm.

“Fáilte go hÉirinn,” Francis began slowly, gesticulating broadly, hoping his flailing would help breach the language barrier, “We wait long. You come here. Very good!”  
Iain choked back a laugh, at his father’s tone and speech. Other villagers didn’t show as much restraint. It didn’t go unnoticed, apparently. He saw the look the short, dark-haired man gave his father and the crowd; crossing his arms, raising his eyebrows and flaring his nostrils. He didn’t expect what he heard next.

“Go raibh maith agat,” he said staring at the petty king, “agaibh,” he said addressing the rest of the family and the small folk, “We understand you have been waiting quite some time, and are glad that you have agreed to supply us with the asset our father has conscripted from you. We have brought your payment,” he said indicating the casks and sacks he had his men drop at the feet of Iain’s lord father, “and are ready to conclude this trade, in the name of our father, Terentii Vladimirovich Miloslavich, veliky knyaz' kievsky. Now,” he concluded, looking through the faces of the Irish family before levying his gaze back upon Francis, “Where is he?”

Iain could tell everyone on his side of the encounter was floored. His blood ran cold. This man was far more than he seemed. His gaeilge was impeccable, flawless, completely intelligible; he was only given away by the funny way he said his r’s and his tendency to clip some words. The disguised prince’s growing fear and suspicion were causing his breathing to go shallow. This was not at all what the prince, nor his family he suspected, had been expecting. He found himself shamefully sinking into the shadows, truly fearing what else this foreigner was capable of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will continue from Mickey's perspective. This is going to be such a slow burn just because I have trouble writing long chapters. I'm working on it haha. This will eventually be smutty, let's just hope I get there. As always, talk to me. Let me know what you like, dislike, think about the piece in general because I've been back editing chapters. I like collaborative writing! Find me on tumblr @yaaaasshole or @wh0lemilk0vich. Thanks buds!


	6. Utrom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With growing impatience, he stepped forward, out of their unintended formation; smirking as the irish family before him stepped back startled.
> 
> “Again, I ask. Where is he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the Russian for "In the morning"  
> A haon, a dó, a trí- one, two, three when counting  
> Ioan Fransisovich- A slavified version of Ian's name using russian naming conventions (p.s. the formal address for people in Russian is usually the first name and patronymic, similar to referring to someone as Mr.+Surname)

Everyone was silent. Mikhailu was never one to worry himself over the thoughts or opinions of others. The Irlandtsy were no exception, but nothing can prepare you for being surrounded by thousands of stoic faces, all eyes trained on you, and riding through a truly deafening silence. The town square, situated right in front of a quaint castle, was already nearly full and filled to bursting with the same expressions, and eyes, and silence the foreign party had met on the trail there.

The high prince’s son looked warily at the gathered natives from on horseback. There stood before the small folk a line of people, well dressed, who must be the royal family that invited them, the Ó Gallchobhair’s. They were in turn surrounded by truly some of the most fearsome looking warriors Mikhailu had ever seen. They were painted, many bare-chested, clothed only in their traditional dress, the pleated tartan wrappings they called kilts. They wore no true armor—as those in Kiev would to battle—though each carried a shield, and was armed with either a great, hulking spear, or a similarly great, hulking sword. That was the moment he understood his father’s wish. These men, he could tell, feared nothing; and the one who taught them would be invaluable to Kiev and Rus’.

Having dismounted and dispensed with pleasantries, Mikhailu now stood with his siblings in the center of the town square, waiting for someone to speak or something to happen. It was clear these Irlandtsy weren’t expecting a foreigner to speak their tongue. As one of his father’s lesser sons, he had been taken into diplomatic instruction at a young age, learning from tutors his father brought in from the world’s greatest nations. So, while it’s true he had a brutish reputation—one which he defended well and often—his skills of speech and statecraft were nothing to scoff at. With growing impatience, he stepped forward, out of their unintended formation; smirking as the Irish family before him stepped back startled.

“Again, I ask. Where is he?” he spoke clearly, looking between the family members trying to find what he came here for. He made a silent note to himself with a raised eyebrow, of the sharp elbow one son, a curly-haired noble with a seemingly constant smirk, gave to his father’s ribs.

The slovenly king across from him piped up at that point, drawing his and his sibling’s attention, “Oh wel- oh yes of course, you mean my son Iain!” he said jovially, indicating a tall, strapping, capable looking soldier, who—besides looking nothing like the rest of his supposed family—could not have been the person Mikhailu was looking for with his brown hair. Still, the king and his family tried to continue their ruse.

“Please don’t take my brother,” a young girl asked, face scrunched piteously, raw and red from crying, “His life is here, his home is here,” she elaborated, earning her a soft affirming response from those around her.

Mikhailu had to keep himself from scoffing, and caught his sister rolling her eyes at the outburst of sisterly affection. Apparently some emotions weren’t universal—there were no doubt times Amanda wished him half-way around the world, if not dead.

“Yes he really is the apple of his father’s eye. I am sad to see him go,” the sad king continued through crocodile tears, burying his face in the crook of his so-called son’s neck, “I only hope that after his service to your father, the High Prince, and to his army he shall one day make his way back home to us…”

Then the princesses kept on wailing, begging the dark-haired foreigners not to take their brother away from them. ‘There must be something he could do,’ they implored, as their curly-haired brother consoled them. All the while, the would-be soldier-prince stood resolutely, as if duty bound, before them all, ready to accept his fate and go.

This charade had to end; it was accomplishing nothing but incensing the knyazhich's growing anger. He took another step forward toward the false prince, meeting his slightly lowered, impassive gaze, and examining his face, trying to block out the din of feigned sobbing. He had finally had enough. The Miloslavichi were a family who believed actions spoke louder than words; he’d teach these farm nobles that.

“Is this some kind of joke,” he stated calmly, looking back toward the king, who went silent.

The smirking prince started up, “We have no idea what you’re talki—”

“You have every idea what I’m talking about,” Mikhailu bellowed. Suddenly grabbing his battle staff from its strap on his back, he cracked the chestnut-haired soldier with the cudgeled end, sending the man sprawling with a grunt.

The Irlandtsy advanced. The Kievan nobles did the same, drawing bows, and brandishing maces, knives, and swords; looking everything like a cornered pack of rabid wolves, not ready to give up without a fight.

“I did not come here to be fucking insulted,” Mikhailu spat, pacing in front of the soldier, still on the ground. 

“Careful brother,” his sister warned in their native language.

He looked to her, but continued. “This,” he indicated, pointing toward the man with the sharp steel point of his staff, “this is not the one we came here for.” He grabbed him by the hair pulling him to his feet. Tossing his staff aside, he produced a knife from behind his back, and held it tight against the man’s throat, as clear a threat as he could think of. “I’m giving you to the count of three to produce the son you promised my father. The ryzhij, the redhead.”

Suddenly, it seemed everyone understood. Again, silence fell as if they intended to wait, to call his bluff. He looked at the wary, incredulous faces of the royal family. Losing patience, he pressed the knife harder against the man’s throat eliciting a sharp wince. 

“A haon,” he called out clearly.

At that, the king ran off, back into the castle for his own protection, but leaving his children.

“Please,” said the eldest daughter quietly, “Please, don’t hurt him. He’s said he’ll go with you, he knows as well as anyo—” she tried to reason

“A dó,” he counted, getting bored and annoyed at this point.

“For fuck’s sake, just take the man and leave!” the no longer smirking prince shouted, red in the face and desperate “Fuck, I’ll go with you if you just drop the knife and let him go!”

He adjusted his grip, about to finish his countdown, “A tr—”

“STOP!” He heard the shout of nowhere, eyes darting trying to catch sight of who was trying to stop him. Finally, he laid his eyes on the boy pushing his way through the crowds. He hadn’t noticed him earlier, but he certainly noticed him now. Tall and lean, chest bare under the shoulder wrap of his kilt, square-jawed face painted in blue and white, looking frenzied, he stepped forward. The boy had a head of flaming hair and sunspot freckles dusting his pale, muscled body. This had to be who they were looking for. 

Mikhailu was struck dumb by the prince. He returned his knife to its sheath, and let go of the soldier he’d nearly killed, offering a hand to help him up, then nervously dragging a thumb across his lower lip. The chestnut warrior returned limping to his post, leaving the two nobles to finish their interaction.

“I am Iain son of Francis of clan Ó Gallchobhair and I suppose, if I must, I will go with you to your homeland and be of whatever service I may,” he looked him in the eye extending an arm to shake, which Mikhailu accepted, still for the moment speechless in the other boy’s presence.

He was brought back by a sharp cough directed at him by his brother Igor. He looked sheepishly back into the boy’s green eyes, “My apologies to you, to your family, and to your man,” he picked up his staff, strapping it once more to his back, “Well, Ioan Fransisovich, let us try to put this grim business behind us, and celebrate your departure. We picked up mead on the way here; it would be a shame to see it go to waste,” he said clapping the redhead on the back. “Tomorrow we sail. Tonight we get fucked,” he said to a raucous cheer.

Mikhailu turned to Iain, “You can say your goodbyes to your family this way, rather than us all just fucking off,” he said, letting the statesman air fall off.

Iain looked over at his family, “Thanks, I appreciate it” he said smiling sadly, before walking off to hug them all tightly.

Amanda walked over to her brother, “He’s handsome,” she said offhand, then added with a knowing sadness, “He reminds me of the stable boy.”

Mikhailu shivered at that, saying, “This time will be different, don’t worry,” letting his sister and brothers walk off to the castle hall before him. He prayed to his old gods and his new one that this time would be different. He could not fall in love with Iain Ó Gallchobhair; he already knew too well that redheads are trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get these bouts of feeling really down and I can't make myself write during them haha! I hope ya'll are enjoying. As always comments and questions are welcome and encouraged. Let me know what you think. Thanks


	7. San Oíche/ Nochyu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think I’d like that,” Iain said, stepping in closer to him, much closer, and he was reaching out again, almost unsure, but nevertheless grabbing raven-haired man around the waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is the Irish and Russian for "At Night" since it combines perspectives, hopefully its easy to follow
> 
> Bodhran-a traditional Irish drum  
> sean nós-Irish for "like old" used to describe traditional Irish step-dancing

It must have been nearing midnight and the festivities were still raging in caisléan Leifir. The braziers had been lit as the sun set, and were kept flickering even this late in the night, not a single one smoldering. It was strange to say the least. The night had an obviously rocky start, but once the mead—along with the slavs’ clear distilled liquor—was flowing freely, the good cheer was quick to follow. Soon enough it didn’t seem to bother a single soul on the emerald isle that they couldn’t understand a word the foreigners were saying; both sides were getting well pissed, and their wild gesticulations seemed to barrel through the language barrier.

A fine example was two of the younger Slavic brothers, found in the corner behind a fire pit. One was doing his best to tell a story using broken, garbled bits of Gaeilge his brother must have taught him, acting out—rather convincingly—the several characters, as the other played along with some kind of lyre, seemingly in a trance singing along. The other foreigners were dispersed throughout the hall. The eldest brothers were testing their strength, matching themselves up against Éireannach soldiers moving gradually from arm wrestling, to a kind of tug-of-war, to actual brawling, all participants laughing all the while. The sister was sitting at a bench with Iain’s senior soldiers, participating in—and clearly winning—a drinking contest. The veteran warriors were awestruck, and the prince couldn’t help but laugh, figuring they must make women a lot different in the east. Shaking his head, he took a swig from his own horn. He had to hand it to the outsiders; they had good drink. The youngest brother sat on his own, Iain noticed, at the end of a long table, drinking like everyone else, but the prince got a sense he was waiting for another shoe to drop. As if the fun could only last so long before something dreadful happened. Iain was considering picking up and joining him, figuring he might at least try to get to know the man he’d be in the service of a bit, but thought better of it, seeing him take out a dagger and start playing around with it. 

Oddly enough, Iain found himself enjoying what was more or less a send-off festival, only his sisters’ sad smiles and his brother’s inebriated well wishes reminding him of his impending voyage. Well that and the icy, unreadable stares he’d catch every so often, from one inky haired foreign dignitary in particular. It was like feeling a bolt of lightning shoot down his spine, and an unfamiliar warmth pool in his gut whenever he met the man’s gaze. So, naturally, he tried to ignore the feeling and the man all-together and returned to drinking, laughing, and singing terribly with his family, fellow soldiers, and countrymen, savoring his final hours.

He was caught off guard when Philip and some of his men demanded he get up and dance the sean nós with them. With everything he’d drunk, it took considerably less convincing than it ought to have. Before he knew it, Iain was up on his feet following his brother to the center of the hall, where tables were being pushed out of the way. Musicians were moving to the dais at the head of the hall preparing to accompany this impromptu performance. Iain looked blearily, smiling, at everyone hollering around them, even the majority of the foreign guests seemed interested in what was about to transpire.

The loud rhythmic thump of the bodhran certainly pulled him out of his fogginess, and, looking to the men around him, he began stepping in time with them, as the pipers, and lute players picked up. It had been a while since he last step danced, but his rustiness was downplayed, thanks to everyone’s steadily increasing drunkenness. In any event, he landed the majority of his jumps and turns so Iain himself was pleased. And that was nothing compared to the wave of cheers and excited clapping he received from his audience, including all of the slavs, minus the one Iain had been most interested in, who looked on impassively before smirking, and clapping lightly along with everyone else. Now that slapped a smile on the prince’s flushing face, and sent his heart racing even more than the dancing did.   
They came to the end of the routine they all somehow seemed to remember, and it was time for some of them to show off in solos. Pádraig, who joined them, stepped forward, and gave a tremendous solo, knees high, and steps clear, before bowing out and joining the clapping crowd. Best not to dwell on Philip’s performance, what mind had remained clear for their group number was gone by his turn, and he quickly landed himself smack on his ass, getting a heave up from the two men next to him, and tossed good naturedly back into the crowd. Iain naturally took his turn at the end, stepping deftly around the perimeter of the circle gathered around him, arms out but torso still, performing jumps and leaps that sent the crowd roaring. He finished his solo set off looking the raven haired foreign guest in the eye, running forward, flipping backward heel over head, and landing with two resolute stomps on the beat; earing him a cheer so loud he was afraid the roof would cave in. His brother and his men ran in to hug him, as Mikhailu stepped forward clapping slowly, a mischievous grin on his face.

 

If he were being honest, Mikhailu hated loud parties; most likely because loud parties tended not to end well at home, it wasn’t a party for their father until someone was left bleeding. But, he was somewhat glad to see that they had managed not to create any bad blood with the Irlandtsy, and his siblings seemed to be enjoying themselves, disregarding the fact that they had no idea what anyone was saying to them. Mikhailu did let out a chuckle when he overheard a few maidens saying his brother Igor seemed dumb as a post, but they wouldn’t throw him out of bed if he were well endowed as it was rumored the foreign men were.

So, he sat dourly on his own, unsuccessfully sneaking glances at the fiery haired prince. He seemed so comfortable, ready to take on a new challenge; it almost offended the Kievan just how confident and assured he seemed, offended and begrudgingly impressed. So, he sat and drank alone, fiddling about with a knife, actively not pining for a foreign prince, and keeping an eye on his siblings scattered about the hall. 

He heard a commotion and looked toward the head table. The prince seemed to be in a lackluster argument with his brother, and some of the painted guard. Mikhailu squinted, wondering what was going on, as they convinced the young man to get up and join them, dragging him to the center of the hall. He was forced to get up from his comfortable, lone seat in the back, and muscle his way into the crowd to be able to see what the irlandtsy were up to. Once he heard the music, it finally dawned on him, that the group were going to begin dancing.

He found the display… quaint. All those involved, seemed to be enjoying themselves, and no one was particularly bad; though Mikhailu had really no reference to go off of. Still the dancing was quick, and rhythmic in a way that convinced him it required a certain level of advanced skill. He couldn’t help but find the whole thing a little comical. The men were dancing, but only from the waist down. Had it not been for the music and clapping, he’d have thought the men hexed. He shared a few puzzled, laughing looks with his siblings from across the circle of bodies, surrounding the princes and dancers.   
He was about to return to seat in the corner, when the music changed, he looked back to the improvised stage to see a singular dancer, the one he had handled rather roughly before. The crown prince, followed, though it seemed the drink got the better of him and he was soon tossed into the ring. Finally, came Iain who, to Mikhailu’s approval, had more upper body movement and was practically acrobatic. The kievan stood transfixed, clapping along with the herd, when the prince seemed to stare straight into him, flipped and ended the entertaining show, planting his feet steadily but taking heaving breaths. He turned toward his cohorts, and Mikhailu had an idea, slowly stepping toward them still clapping after everyone had stopped.

He looked toward Igor and Amanda and encouraged them to start clapping loudly and slowly. He looked to Iain with a smirk, silently asking him to play along, which he did with an entertained curiosity. So, Mikhailu began his dance, stiff, measured, but traditional. He started off slowly, his kicks and heel slapping perfectly in time with the rhythm surrounding him, sometimes crouching low, sometimes taking long strides around the circle. He allowed the tempo to gradually increase, keeping up with jumping spins, and twirls, and reversals of direction. Soon his siblings joined in with him, somewhat clumsy and bulky, sure, but practiced, while their host audience encouraged them. He looked around to his siblings, proud and actually having fun, and they silently agreed to stop, with Mikhailu landing on one knee, with his arms extended. The applause was raucous—clearly dancing from a bunch of foreign brutes was unexpected—but he was deaf to it all, captivated by the twinkling-eyed smile of the redheaded prince.

Mikhailu coughed awkwardly, snapping himself out of his reverie, stood up, smoothing out his robes, and walked somewhat hastily out of the hall to get some air in the courtyard. He hadn’t expected to be followed, but it seemed he would be sharing this breather, fortunately or not, with the handsome young prince.

Without turning around to face him, and before the younger man could break the silence, Mikhailu did it himself, “that was… interesting,” he said considering carefully which word to use in a tongue he could never be too sure of. The other’s laugh seemed to tell him he chose just fine.

“I could say the same,” he responded, walking up next to Mikhailu, and gazing up at the stars with him. “Your Gaeilge is good. If it weren’t for the accent, you’d never guess you weren’t from Éire… Well that and your sentences sometimes come out funny,” he continued, looking at the shorter man.

Mikhailu turned to meet his smile-softened gaze, scoffing a bit, “You’ll see what it’s like when you start to learn my language.”

The redhead grimaced a bit, laughing, “Your language sounds so angry all the time, like wolves barking,” he winced, seeing the other man’s eyes widen.

“Maybe it doesn’t sing to you, like it does to us, but then your language just sounds like a bunch of fucking squawking birds to us,” he said turning to the taller man, laughing as tried to put his thoughts into words, “My brothers were telling me everyone here is too happy. You all sound like you’re singing all the time. Life isn’t always happy you know.” 

Iain just stood there laughing, like it was the funniest thing he ever heard.

“I’m serious,” he said, hoping he was being understood clearly, “where I fucking come from, if shit is fucked you act like it. You don’t play pretend, you just act and speak truthfully!” he felt like he was raving, but the other man still just stood there laughing.

The taller man wiped his eyes, stilling his laughter now that his conversation partner was silent and scowling. He cleared his throat and tried to talk about something new, “Your dancing is a lot like your language too, you know. It’s very precise, kind of wild, and I suppose once you get beyond the unfamiliar shock, it has its beauty. You dance beautifully,” he said quietly and earnestly, catching the red tinge Mikhailu’s cheeks and ears took.

“You are also very beautiful…” he said distractedly, looking at the redheads full pink lips, biting his own lower lip unconsciously, then as an afterthought adding, “Beautiful a dancer- you are also you know, dancing beautifully…” he trailed off, mentally kicking himself. 

Iain let the man stumble over himself; it was endearing, and made him smile. “It was something we all picked up as children,” he said moving to face the other man. He reached out a hand, dragging it down Mikhailu’s chest and torso appreciatively, “Yours seems more involved, like it requires months, if not years of training,” he said while feeling the man’s muscles, softened out with a mouthwatering layer of bulk. Iain stood transfixed and staring.

Mikhailu’s voice broke, as he responded, “May-aybe I’ll be able to show you some day, you seem like you could handle it,” he said reaching his own hand out to feel Iain’s chiseled side, obstructed by the fabric of his kilt crossing his chest.

“I think I’d like that,” Iain said, stepping in closer to him, much closer, and he was reaching out again, almost unsure, but nevertheless grabbing raven-haired man around the waist. Before he could do or say anything Mikhailu felt Iain’s soft lips brush open against his, testing to see how far he might go. Mikhailu despite himself leaned up and deepened the kiss, a moan escaping that was equally unintentional. 

Encouraged, Iain grabbed the back of the shorter man’s head, pushing their lips closer together, easing his tongue in past Mikhailu’s thick, open lips. His other hand snaked back to Mikhailu’s pert round ass, giving it an appreciative firm squeeze, remembering how nice it looked as the man danced and kicked, squatting so low to the ground.

As much as he had been enjoying the moment himself, Mikhailu felt an equal growing sense of dread. Everything was so familiar, and with the pleasure came a remembered pain. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes, and before things could go further and become more ruinous, he pushed away from Iain, breaking their kiss, apologizing repeatedly and ran off to clear his head. What was he doing? What was he thinking? How could he be letting this all happen again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack my first actual long chapter and I'm pretty happy with it. I always feel like my writing will seem rushed. Hopefully the end seems as natural as it possibly can, something just needed to happen between these boys, and I think it's relatively well set up. Anyway as always hope you enjoy! Let me know if there are any parts you especially like, dislike, or think need clearing up I'm down to make edits. End notes in earlier chapters have my tumblr, so reach out to me on there too! Just feedback is the name of the game people!!


	8. Let's try this again, not a true update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listen to me try to rationalize being go so long

Welp I got a little discouraged actually because I think the day after I posted this Spock went back to finishing the work that actually inspired me to write this, and I honestly felt like giving up. I felt like they were telling the same kind of story I wanted to, and they could do it better than me. But I started my master's program in Russian Literature, Film and Cultural studies, and I keep reading stuff from the Primary Chronicle, which makes me miss this. So first things first I'm editing the chapters and adding bits and pieces along the way, hopefully, and then I'm going to do some writing over winter break before second semester. Hopefully I haven't alienated you guys, and you still want to read this shit story I keep losing the plot on

Yaaaass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think of what's written so far, so that I can improve it and get an idea of where I want this plot to go. Anything you guys can tell me would be such a huge help.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think! I'm completely open to suggestions, comments, and feedback. This is my first foray into writing and I really want to write something compelling that people want to read.


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